Before they return, with their wonderful dead capes whipping, their bulbous eye lots, their broken carriages (massaging one finger at a time, investigating its particular passion, the eyes were not eyes at all, but a whole face on paper, staring back, like from a graphite pit—so devoted to the flirtation between us, within that swale’s dampness, hanging doodles like flute lines, there is only time for the grand emotions: breezy lawns, errors caught in their halftones, a catcher beyond the fire pit.